


Sine Qua Non

by beyondinsane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondinsane/pseuds/beyondinsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to help John get over his grief, Mrs. Hudson brings by a box of Sherlock's things for him to sort through. The items trigger feelings, memories, and a few eavesdropped-upon conversations with Sherlock's headstone.  </p><p>Thanks to @xoxEmjayxox and @janesgravity for the beta. Had to get a Post-Reichenbach-Feelings fic out there before I tried to write anything else in the fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sine Qua Non

It was not supposed to be tremendously difficult, being dead. All the greats of history had managed it, of course, as well as the uncounted masses. Sherlock had always imagined it to be more restful, when he bothered to think of it, which wasn’t at all often. Though sometimes, late at night, he would try and meditate - to think of nothing. He could rarely grasp it for more than a moment - but that, he imagined with equal parts awe and horror, that would be death. 

As it turns out, his death was rather less restful and more difficult than he had assumed. Of course, this would be due to the fact that he was rather less dead than what he had assumed when imagining the situation. 

The first few weeks, he lived like a creature of myth. He would only show his head at night, and in the first hours of evening he took to skulking about the cemetery to see who would pay him a visit. There was Mrs. Hudson, of course, who would yell at him about John and her furniture and then when she was done scolding she would have a sob and be off. Lestrade came too, every once and awhile when he was particularly stuck on a case. He would pace back and forth until some inspiration, or like as not, false hope, turned him towards a new direction and he would briskly walk away just until he reached the gate when he would break into a run. It took every ounce of Sherlock’s self control not to follow him and see what was causing so much consternation. 

Molly came once, shy and unsure, checking carefully about her as if she was sure Sherlock would pop out of the bushes at any moment. She made as if to leave a flower - a white daisy - but pulled it back into her purse at the last moment. To no one in particular, she announced,

“I won’t.”

Only then did Sherlock know his secret was safe. The entire scheme hung upon her strength, and though he could see it grieved her, she would not tell. 

Mycroft brought flowers every Tuesday, precisely at half past six. Always a bouquet of peace lilies, which made Sherlock snort a laugh. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

He would say, in that strained way of his, and then stand for a long minute before checking his watch and then over his shoulder for the car to come round.  

Sherlock could watch his parade of mourners with passive interest, as though he were nothing more than a spirit and this was somehow his penance - to witness the very few he had touched in his life make what small gestures they would.  He watched their faces  - it was a new sensation to be pitied and mourned. Sherlock was sorry that taking his leave had saddened them, but not moved to the point of betraying his mission. It was easy to watch them from a distance, as if they grieved someone else.  Though when the sun set in earnest, and the creaking gate announced John’s arrival, Sherlock could not help but but creep closer, hanging on every moment of John’s visit.  He knew what he was doing to John that day on the roof top, he had guessed it would hurt very badly. But with all his foresight Sherlock did not guess what his death would do, what it would really do to John. John’s visits were nearly unbearable, but Sherlock endured so that John could live on - even if he didn’t seem very keen on life anymore.

Maybe it would have been better for John to die, Sherlock reasoned after John’s first visit. At least then he wouldn’t hurt any more. Being dead wouldn’t hurt if you did it properly. But the thought sent a panic through him that Sherlock had never felt before. Not even in Baskerville. The thought sent him tearing though London in the dead of night, climbing up the fire escape of the east-end shit hole John was living in so that he could peer into the window and watch John sleep. Sherlock watched John’s chest rise and fall in that familiar way and remained until his own pulse slowed to quadruple the rhythm of John’s breathing, as was proper. 

No, no. It wouldn’t do to have John die. Sherlock had made the right decision after all. If John had died - Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to kill the thought - it was better not to think of it. A waste of energy, wondering what might have been. It was a test and he had passed. He was human, like John had said, like only John had seen.  Sherlock pressed his hand against the glass imagined he could rest it instead on John’s chest and feel the rise and the fall of him, a lifetime in each breath. 

 

***

 

“Just a small box, dear.” 

Mrs. Hudson’s voice sounded tinny on the intercom, and John buzzed her in the building without responding. 

He ignored the worried looks she cast around at the bare walls of the flat before setting the (rather large) box on the floor next to the one chair.

“I put the kettle on while you came up. Should only be a minute,” John said, breaking the long silence. Neither of them moved. 

“That’s good.”

“Do sit down.” John offered, gesturing to the sofa, which looked to have been pulled from a skip. There was a brown stain that Mrs. Hudson eyed suspiciously before she sat, evidently deciding it was harmless. John sat down on the chair, drumming his fingers and checking over his shoulder into the small kitchen.

“It takes time, John.” Mrs. Hudson started, and stopped abruptly. 

“Me, or the kettle?” John huffed, a bit of a smile forming on his lips in spite of himself. Mrs. Hudson was so nervous. He hadn’t seen her in weeks - hadn’t even returned her calls. 

“Molly came round to see you.” Mrs. Hudson continued in a rush, and John tried not to feel disappointed. Sherlock would have loved that bit about the kettle. 

“Did you tell her where I’d gone?”

“I didn’t give her your address, no.” Mrs. Hudson responded, jumping up when the kettle began to whistle. “Let me, dear. She wanted to see you, she had gone to pay him a visit, and she said she wanted to see how you were getting on, that’s all.”

“You can say his name, Mrs. Hudson.” John was annoyed with all the walking-on-eggshells. He had been in the army, damn it. He had seen men die before, die in more gruesome ways. His friends had died - he’d been the one to pack up their things and send them back to wives or boyfriends or parents.  No matter how many times he tried to tell himself this was no different, he could not dodge the fact that he hadn’t been able to grieve Sherlock in his usual, stoic way. There was no way to even begin the process, so instead he ran from it. Ran from the pain of the familiar and the pity of their friends.  John hated the pity as much as he fed on it, sustaining the pain he felt because it kept Sherlock in his head and heart.

“Can I? Alright then.” Her voice was small in the kitchen as she fixed the tea tray. John heard the cups rattle as she carried it in to the room, taking small steps.  “John, listen to me. I know you haven’t wanted to come round the flat - I know you think you’re staying here but you should know Mycroft has been to see me.” She placed the tray on the small table and poured him a cup. He left it sit, not wanting Mrs. Hudson to see how bad the shake in his hands had gotten. 

John got up from this chair and paced a moment, feeling anger rushing hot in his veins.  The name “Mycroft” set him on edge, this was his fault, his own brother... John gripped the back of his chair, fingers tense against the fraying upholstery.

“Now that’s a name you shouldn’t use.” John warned, but Mrs. Hudson continued on as if this was of no consequence. 

“He’s been to see me and he left this for you.” She pointed to a large brown envelope at the top of the box. John picked it up and fought against his urge to crush it in his fist. It was all too similar to the envelopes Jim had used to lead them along his merry chase to find Hansel and Gretel.  “He’s also paid me for the flat for the next year, for you. For your  -”

“I don’t need his _charity.”_ John sneered, fully aware that he sounded just like Sherlock. “If he thinks he can come and just buy  - whatever it is he wants from me - he’s dead wrong, he is.” 

Mrs. Hudson blew gently on her tea before taking a hesitant sip. 

“You’re not the only one that misses him, you know. That misses Sherlock.”

Though John had told her to use his name, the sound of it tore through him like a bullet.  He sat down again, the envelope in his lap like a forgotten toy. 

“He wouldn’t like it, John, you staying here in this pay-by-the-week. It isn’t safe, and it isn’t home.” Mrs. Hudson was right about it not being safe. There was gunfire nightly, and the brickwork could barely be seen though the spray-paint on some buildings. 

“Well Baker Street isn’t home anymore, is it? Not now that...” and John couldn’t continue. He wondered it it was possible to hate the sound of one’s own voice, for his bilious tone grated on his last nerve.  “I’m not sure if I can take it, honestly. All that rubbish lying about.”

 

“I’ve cleaned up most of it.” Mrs. Hudson warned. “You almost wouldn’t recognise the place now.”

“You did what?” John’s mouth went inexplicably dry, and he couldn’t dare risk a sip of tea, not with his hand trembling. 

“Well what was I supposed to do? It had to be dealt with. I couldn’t very well leave his things there for the next tenant.”

John tried to imagine it - someone else in 221B. A young couple, with a baby - or a wee yippie dog. No, no that wouldn’t do at all. Someone else in Sherlock’s place by the fire. Someone else staring out onto the street, stepping out of the bathroom, taking tea on the stairs as if that was a particularly normal thing to do. Someone else shouldn’t be allowed to do those things.

“So if you won’t have it John, then I’ll write you a cheque for the amount Mycroft gave me and I’ll rent the flat to anyone who will take it. Might be a curiosity - should have left some of this things, I suppose.” She wore a very coy expression, and John knew she was trying to get to him. It was working. The idea of someone gawking - of prying - sleeping in _his_ room, patching over the holes in the wall, covering over the wallpaper...

“No.” John said. “Don’t...” He stopped, closed his eyes. It was impossible to focus. “Keep Mycroft’s money, and I’ll...I’ll see about it Mrs. Hudson, but no promises.”

“He’s not the only one I miss, my dear.” Her voice was sad, and John moved to comfort her without thinking. He joined her on the sofa and took her hand. “It’s so quiet.” She whispered, and John knew she was crying. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her, without looking. 

“No promises.” He repeated when she gave his palm a squeeze and placed the handkerchief back in it. 

“Work on it.” She said firmly. “No, work _through_ it. You can start with the things I brought.”

John eyed the box warily, as though Sherlock could materialise from inside at any moment. 

“I got rid of most of it, John, but there were some things...At first I thought to give them to Mycroft, but - there were some things - you were all he had, really.”

“I’ll take them.” John said softly. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Mrs. Hudson put her teacup down, having barely taken any at all. “And I will hope to see you soon. We could go together again, sometime, to pay Sherlock a visit, if you like.”

John thought it over, carefully, while they walked to the entrance together. He had been to see Sherlock every day since that first time, and he didn’t care to admit it. It was raining, now, and Mrs. Hudson took a moment at the door to ready her umbrella. 

“Sure, maybe.” His voice was not as casual as his words, and Mrs. Hudson leaned in to kiss his cheek.  “Do think about 221B. He would want you home.”

“Yeah, well. I want him home too.” There was more bitterness in his voice than he intended and he turned away, unable to meet her eye. John heard her open her mouth as if to speak again, but instead she only drew a sharp breath before making her way out onto the rain soaked street. 

John fixed himself another cup of tea and sat in his chair. The box seemed to be staring at him - challenging him to be man enough to unpack it. He wondered how Mrs. Hudson had done it, decided what things were too personal to be left to a charity shop. He didn’t know how he would have accomplished such a task. He had attempted it shortly after St. Bart’s, but it was impossible. Sherlock belonged to the tiniest details - the half eaten biscuit left on a saucer, the hamper of laundry waiting for John to take it to the cleaners, the alarm clock that rang precisely at 3:04 am for no particular reason. John could no more erase the smallest bit evidence that here lived a man called Sherlock Holmes than he could erase his own consciousness with a bullet. 

Not that it hadn’t crossed his mind. That first night alone in 221B, unable to reckon with the monumental task of cleaning up what remained of Sherlock’s existence, John had thought that perhaps it would be easier to just... after all, what bigger mess had Sherlock left behind? The metal grew hot and wet in his mouth as he’d pondered. He hadn’t bothered to write a note. No one would wonder why.

It was that certainty that had prevented him from pulling the trigger. It would be in the press, of course, just another sensational story in the take-down of Sherlock Holmes. It would be the final victory for Moriarty - Sherlock’s most steadfast ally takes his own life rather than admit the truth. Never mind that Moriarty was dead himself, John could not let him beat Sherlock so completely. As long as John lived, he would keep the only good opinion Sherlock had ever cared about. As long as John lived, Sherlock couldn’t disappear from the world entirely. He was evidence. He had put the gun in Sherlock’s room, beneath the (unmade) bed. Maybe Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of it by now.

John set the envelope aside, neither wanting nor caring about what Mycroft had to say. He pulled the box onto his lap and ran his hand along the top, letting his fingers curl around the edges and corners. The packing tape was peeling on one side, tempting him. Daring him. 

“Oh well, let’s have done.” He announced loudly, to no one in particular. With a steady hand, he tore off the tape in one length and fished around inside, without looking. The first object he found was small. His fingers were met with a familiar velvet texture, and his index finger brushed against a hinge at the back. Sherlock had deduced the contents of this small box once, with only half as much to go on.

 

***

 

“It’s a _shirt.”_

Sherlock’s pronouncement came without the usual explanation of how, precisely, he’d riddled out the contents of the bag that John was carrying. 

“Good job I wasn’t planning to wrap it.” John said, pulling off his coat. “You’ll want to try it on, I suppose?”

“Pointless. You stole one of mine for sizing purposes. Awfully domestic of you, John, I am sure the shop girl thought it was adorable.”

“If you’re going to be snide, I’ll return it.” John said, not really meaning it. Sherlock sniffed a laugh.

“Then what ever would I do with my diamond cufflinks?”  Sherlock held out his hand and John handed him the bag. The shirt was a deep grey, with singular threads of silver running through it. Not enough to be garish, just enough to catch the eye if the light fell just right.  Sherlock turned it over in his hands a few times, running his fingers along the collar and seams as if memorising it by touch. 

“Well?” John tilted his head, a little unsure. “The shop girl said it would suit you.”  After trying to steer him towards browns and teals, John had removed Sherlock’s nicked shirt from the M&S bag he’d concealed it in and confessed he was shopping for a friend. The girl had smiled knowingly, having recognised John from the papers. “This would be lovely on your gent,” she’d said and John hadn’t bothered to protest the insinuation. 

“Where are we going, then?” Sherlock asked, pulling off his robe and putting the shirt on after all. John took it as approval. 

“What?” 

“One hardly wears diamond cufflinks out to Angelo’s.”

As usual, Sherlock was one step ahead of him. John had purchased a shirt so that he’d be able to wear his cufflinks. To Sherlock, that implied that John must want him to wear his cufflinks - and if so, where? Dinner, logically. 

 

“It’s a surprise.” John said, not wanting to admit he’d accidentally asked Sherlock to a fancy dinner on the town. Good job he’d just been paid. 

“I am sure it is.” Sherlock smirked and fastened the buttons on his new shirt.  The shop girl had been right, the shirt did suit him. The cut of it accentuated his frame and John liked how the dark colour offset his skin. Gray, black, and creamy-white. Then Blue-gray-green, whatever the colour of his eyes was called. John didn’t dwell on things like Sherlock’s eye colour, he found it led to rather inconvenient thoughts.  Sherlock interrupted just such an inconvenience with “You better got a move on if we’ve got reservations to make” and smiled at his own grammatical cleverness. John rolled his eyes and left the room to find something to wear and to furtively Google “Nice Restaurants, London.”

The diamond cufflinks glinted in the low light of the restaurant, and every time Sherlock moved, the silver threads in the shirt drew attention to the length of his arms and stomach. John fancied that if Sherlock could see himself, he’d be in a state of perpetual distraction. Not that it affected John. John took another sip of his cabernet and sighed. Well, not much.

“Steak to your liking?” Sherlock asked out of nowhere, breaking the sense of quiet that had purveyed over most of the dinner.

“Yes, it’s quite good, don’t you think?” John said, reaching to cut another bite. He liked his meat on the well side of medium-well, and he wouldn’t have said no to sauce had it been offered. It hadn’t been, not in this kind of place. 

“Perfectly lovely.” Sherlock helped himself to another dainty piece, cut square. A flash of red between his lips, then gone as he chewed and swallowed. John took a larger sip of wine. “It’s all lovely, John.”

“Yes, well...it seemed a waste for you to have the cufflinks and not use them.” 

“Can’t have wasted cufflinks.” Sherlock agreed as though this was very sensible, though the amused twist in his smile belied his sarcasm. John felt a bit silly but he didn’t mind, not truly, and chuckled at his own expense. 

“I suppose we ought to use them again sometime.” Sherlock said later as they walked to find a cab. “Especially now that I’ve got a shirt.”

“Diamond cufflinks are turning out to be an expensive habit.” John said, thinking of what a dent the evening out had put in his bank account. 

“Come now, we can’t let them fall into disuse.” Sherlock said, feigning a pout. “And just think of my poor tie clip. I ought to get a job selling autos, just to make sure it gets its fair share of the spotlight.”

John bust into wine-fuelled laughter at the mental picture of Sherlock trying to talk someone in to a new-model Ford, his hair slicked back and tie pinned against the wind. Sherlock laughed a little less robustly, raising his arm a little to signal for a cab. 

There was a flash of light and the sound of footsteps. John jumped in front of Sherlock, and was about to give chase until he felt Sherlock’s hand cup his shoulder. 

“Just a photographer catching us out - it happens sometimes, now...” He signalled again, and this time a cab pulled over.  John followed the photographer with his eyes - he was almost out of sight now. No point in a pursuit, especially if a photo of Sherlock was all he was after. 

“Let’s go home, John.” Sherlock opened the cab door for him, to which John raised his eyebrow. Sherlock only gestured though, a flash at his wrist as he ushered John into the cab.

 

***

 

“Mrs. Hudson came round today.”

 John’s voice was quiet. He’d been late today, later than usual. Sherlock had almost given up - maybe today was the day John would stop coming. Maybe he was sick. Maybe John had a date.

Sherlock had paced behind a particularly ostentatious memorial until well after dark. He had things to do, damn it, but he wasn’t about to miss John if he came. He owed John that much - to be present for his visit, to listen to what John had to say. It wasn’t eavesdropping, not when John was talking to him. The fact that John didn’t know he could hear was unimportant. 

“She wants me to move back home - to 221B. I moved out, you know. Not sure if I told you or not.”

Of course Sherlock knew this. He fired a gun in the neighbourhood several times a night so that John wouldn’t think it was a safe place to live and move back with Mrs. Hudson. The man was dreadfully unobservant - or maybe, Sherlock thought with a frown - maybe he didn’t care. 

“She brought a bunch of your things by, so I could...handle them, I guess. Get used to your stuff again, maybe, so I can move back in. Or be rid of them so I can move on.” John’s speech broke and Sherlock willed himself to be very still. It wasn’t safe yet. It might not ever be safe enough. Sherlock reviewed the rational argument for his behaviour and it still trumped his emotional response. For now. 

“Anyhow,” John continued after a long pause. “I started to go through your things and it felt wrong. I know, stupid cause you never worried about going through mine. But, I’m not like you. Besides, I couldn’t keep anything from you at any rate. You...you held on to the oddest things. I can’t tell what they meant to you and some of them...meant something different to me, maybe, then they meant to you. Like these...”

Sherlock couldn’t see what John pulled from his pocket, and the _not knowing_ drove him batty. 

“I remember giving them to Mrs. Hudson when she picked out the shirt -” John’s voice wavered again “-the shirt you’re wearing now. She said it was a waste as it was a closed casket, and wouldn’t I like to keep them, but I didn’t think you would like to rest in a shirt with open cuffs and these were your only pair.”  Sherlock knew what he was holding now; flashes of light at his wrist, in the mirror, as he applied a touch of cologne, in the reflection of the door as he held it for John and touched the small of his back, in John’s wine glass while he drank and drank and fidgeted nervously, in the photo he’d paid to have taken of them, the one he kept beneath his cable knit trouser socks because, obviously.

“She tricked me, Sherlock, and now I have these and it isn’t right. They should be with you.”

John knelt then and Sherlock couldn’t see what he was doing. He could hear though, vegetation ripping and earth moving and - _oh, John._

“It’s not the same, I know - and I’m sorry now you didn’t get more use out of them. If I would have known I would - I wouldn’t -” John paused again “They suited you, Sherlock, like any fine thing did. They wouldn’t look the same on me.”

Sherlock heard him sniffle in the dark, and his reason almost failed him. He dug his nails into the bark of his Hiding Tree (oak, gnarled, at least one hundred years old) and willed himself to keep still. John was rising, leaving now.

“Besides - “ He said, stopping in his tracks. “All my cuffs have buttons.”

Sherlock waited till he was gone before running over to his own grave. He felt around the moist ground until the grass came loose in his fingers, and the soil after it. There, not very deep, John had buried the diamond cufflinks, in their small velvet-covered box.  He put the box to his nose - wet earth and John’s pockets - and then replaced the soil and sod. 

Sherlock opened the box, twin flashes of reflected streetlight, and for the first time since he died, he felt doubt creeping over him - that this ruse might not be worth the promise of safety. Surely there were other ways to keep John safe? Sherlock snapped the box shut and put it in his pocket. Better still to be done with it all quickly, and he was getting nowhere standing about in his graveyard.

 

***

 

John felt better after returning the cufflinks to Sherlock. In fact he was tempted to bring a spade, dig down, and drop the entire box in on top of the coffin - but he didn’t want to get caught digging into a grave. _Imagine that headline._ Emboldened by his victory, he returned to the box the next morning and fished around at random, just as he’d done the day before. Looking through it would mean confronting all the items at once. It was better this way. 

His hand fell on a familiar shape, and John knew what it was before he pulled it from the box.  It could really only be one thing. He sighed and set the thing on the table in front of him, the memento of their first adventure together. Its battery had died, but John pressed all the buttons anyway, closing his eyes and hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head _Send this, precisely this...._

John didn’t know quite what to do with it - what would a bloke do with a pink phone, really? He smiled, remembering that Sherlock had used it fairly often even after the case. He laughed a bit sadly, thinking of Sherlock in his long, black coat, ducking around into a dark alley to send a text on his pink mobile - completely unaware of what an unconventional picture he made. 

 There was really only one thing he could do with it, and it made him laugh even harder to think he was considering it. It was all but decided. John tucked the phone into his pocket and returned to the box, feeling as though he could have another go. 

Something soft and smooth fell between his fingertips gave way, and instead his hand found purchase on something hard. Feeling around, he knew what it was and withdrew his hand as if bitten. Not that. Not yet. Reaching in again - on the opposite corner of the box - he pulled out a roll of paper. 

“Oh.” He said aloud, setting the roll down on the table gingerly. It was thick, comprised of many pages, and was bound by a bit of string that John recognised as Mrs. Hudson’s yarn. (She’d almost taken up knitting once, promising to make John a green jumper, as wouldn’t John look fetching in green? Almost like an elf.) She must have taken it from his music stand - as John would know the hand writing anywhere. It was Sherlock’s composition.  

There, in hasty scrawl, Sherlock had created music out of the chaos of his mind. John would watch him - Sherlock never noticed, or pretended not to - as he played, pausing to take down the notes. John wished he knew how to notate, so that Sherlock might never have had to interrupt himself. It would have been really something, to translate what Sherlock played into notes anyone could understand and replicate. John looked at the music for a long while, imagining he could recognise certain parts. He knew he was probably wrong, but he attached portions of memory to the jagged run of notes - like soldiers marching up and down stairs. 

He had to hear it again. 

Where did one find a violinist in an emergency? Not that this was strictly an emergency, but John was overcome with desperation to hear the piece. Something of Sherlock’s would live again. He didn’t suppose that one could barge into a symphony rehearsal - but perhaps a music store?  There was one near Baker Street - Sherlock was forever sending him for a spare string or resin. 

The tube ride took nearly half an hour, and John spent the entire time looking at the music and humming a bit. It didn’t sound right to him, and he didn’t know how fast to go or where his memory even started. It was only when he reached the door of the shop that he remembered it was Sunday - closed on Sundays. Sherlock had once thrown a full on tantrum that his A-string had decided to bust on a Sunday. When John suggested he keep a spare set on hand, Sherlock had looked at him gravely. 

“I suppose you think I should keep a spare _John_ on hand, too” he’d almost spat, and had gone right back to playing, ignoring the lack of his A-string. The music was fragmented, but Sherlock played on. 

Though he’d been bothered about it at the time, John understood him now. Just because you know something is temporary doesn’t mean you can plan for its eventual end. 

He walked back to the Jubilee station, mind full of snapped strings. The stairs seemed to be longer on the way down then they were on the way up, but the noise of the street above eventually faded, giving thrum of the trains and of the talking people and the music of the station.  The violin music. John silently said a prayer of thanks to the LU busking scheme.  Whoever had the license, he was good - John made his way through the crowded station and crossed over to the other side of the platform, following the sound of the music. 

He was tall and thin, almost dancing with his instrument. He had longish dark hair - John dismissed the likeness as soon as it came to his head. 

“Hi, hello!” John announced himself as soon as the man had finished his song, and he tossed a ten quid into the open case. 

“Thank you.” The performer said, touching his bow to his forehead. His voice was high and fluty, for which John was exceedingly grateful. 

“Do, you, ah, take requests?” John asked hopefully, perhaps a little too eagerly, because the man took a small step backwards and responded,

“As in, musical requests?”

“What other...” John sighed, because of course. “Never mind, yes. Yes musical requests. You see, a... my very dear friend has recently passed away.” John paused there, waiting for recognition. Thankfully, it didn’t come. This particular busker must not pay attention to the stacks of tabloids not far from where he performed. 

“Go on.” The man said, still a little wary. 

“He was a composer and I - I was hoping to find someone who could play this? I’d like to make a recording.” John brandished his newly activated pink mobile phone as though he was trying to prove that recording was what he had in mind. 

“Right here?” The man looked around before raising his eyebrows at the rather garish colour of John’s mobile.  “On your phone? It’s terribly noisy. I’m afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

“Well.” John couldn’t very well bring him back to his dodgy rental. He didn’t want to go back to 221B, but it was nearby and, John reasoned with a sigh, it would sound the best there.  “We could go elsewhere - if you’d consider it. Not anything funny - now, so you understand.” John wanted to be clear. He opened the black notebook and held out the music. The violinist whistled. 

“Tough stuff. Your mate was top notch.”

“You have no idea.” The words caught in John’s throat, and the man cupped John’s shoulder for just a moment, bow still in hand. 

“Sorry for your loss. But it’ll cost you, a recording. I don’t work for free, not even for nice blokes who lost their boyfriends.” 

“I’m aware. When could you come?”

“My shift is over in ten. How’s a bout you leave me an address and I’ll meet up with you.” The violinist smiled. “Tim’s my name. Tim O’Rourke.”

“I’m John Watson.” John said, without thinking.

“Hold on a sec.. _the_ John Watson? As in... _confirmed bachelor John Watson?_ ” Tim asked, putting together the pieces. 

“Yeah...” John didn’t have the energy to try and deny it. Sherlock would laugh at him for not using a pseudonym, but if Tim recognised John’s name, he would certainly recognise the house number.

“Fuck.” Tim said, looking at the music again, with renewed interest. “Thought you looked familiar. Guess I didn’t recognise you without-”

“Indeed.” John sighed, interrupting him. “So, do you still need an address?”

“Never mind, I’ll come round Baker Street after I’m done.”

John left him to finish, and went to go warn Mrs. Hudson about the music. He didn’t want her to think the flat haunted.

 

***

 

“I had quite the adventure today, Sherlock.” John announced to the headstone. I learned how to read music. Violin music. A nice bloke I met on the tube taught me the staff. He even showed me how to play the notes. I can’t do it very well, of course, but it was fun to try.  I can do ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ _and_ ‘Twinkle Twinkle‘ without the bow. Funny, I never noticed it was the same as the ‘ABCs.’ Bit uncreative, don’t you think? Never heard the melody without the words, I guess. Still, pretty good for day one.”

Sherlock stifled a laugh. He could imagine John’s face, even if he couldn’t see it in the dark. He tried to picture John holding a violin, face screwed up in concentration.  Would John have used _Sherlock’s_ violin? John’s hands on his violin, fingers sliding up the strings - surely not. He must have used this tube-fellow’s instrument. Sherlock closed his eyes - fighting a powerful surge of jealousy. He didn’t know which was worse, honestly. 

“I was back in our flat today. For a few hours, only. Mrs. Hudson has the place tidied up - it almost feels like somewhere else without your rubbish everywhere. Without you. I might -”

John left the sentence hang, as if he was afraid to speak it aloud - afraid to admit to himself that Baker Street might be home again.

“I had Tim - that’s the chap from the tube - play the song you were writing. I wanted to hear you again. Maybe you never knew how much I liked when you’d play. You probably did, but we never talked about it. There’s a lot we never really talked about. A lot I wish we had.”

The jealousy spread out from the pit of Sherlock’s stomach to the very tips of his fingers. John had another man _in Sherlock’s flat_ playing _Sherlock’s music_ and then he had the gall to come tell Sherlock’s grave about it. Had he been actually buried in it, Sherlock imagined John would have heard him rolling over in it repeatedly. 

“I recorded it.” John continued, oblivious to the fact that his revelation would have caused great discomfort to the corpse of his best friend. “I brought it with me, so -”

John pulled out his phone and sat on the ground, next to the headstone. Sherlock could just made out his shape in the light from the street.  The phone John was holding wasn’t his phone from Harry. The size of the screen was all wrong. A flash of pink. Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“-I thought maybe you’d like to hear it. Not that you can, but - I’d like to play it for you just the same. Wish to God it were the other way around. That you were playing it for me. I mean, not that you were here and I was dead. I mean...sometimes -” John sighed, and in the dim light John saw him lean his head against the granite. 

“Never mind - just-” And Sherlock heard him tap his phone. The noise the phone made in response confirmed that it was the same phone he’d gotten from the Pink Woman.  It was an absurdly sentimental gesture, but - Sherlock could tell by the tightening in his own chest - an effective one. Then the music started and Sherlock forgot all about the pink phone.

Sherlock listened the whole way through, fingers twitching in his pocket. He hadn’t played in months and listening to his own composition was a special sort of torture. This Tim-from-the-tube could play it well, for only having looked at it today, but it wasn’t how Sherlock would play it himself.  He played by the book, holding the notes for the allotted time without any variation at all. Sherlock supposed he played professionally in an orchestra somewhere. The training made for an accurate representation of the music but Sherlock couldn’t help but prefer the way he played it himself. If John noticed the change he didn’t say and Sherlock couldn’t point out the differences. 

The recording ended abruptly - the piece hadn’t been finished.  John moved again, and Sherlock thought he would leave, but instead the music started over from the beginning. 

Sherlock did the only thing he could do and walked away, leaving John to lean against the headstone and pretend Sherlock could still hear him - not daring to dream that he could

The next day he risked a trip to the Jubilee station, heavily disguised of course. He sat in the men’s room across from where Tim (tall, dark, not Sherlock) played and listened to his own music. The man was quite taken with it, and tried several different ways to resolve the final sequence, none of which Sherlock liked. He had to give the boy credit, though. He waited till the music stopped, and then fake-limped over to the performance area.  Tim had gone, so Sherlock pulled out a black marker and went to work on the floor inside the semi-circle - quickly so as not to call attention to himself. Five lines, twenty-three notes, a fermata, and _finis._ He paused a bit and added “ _A piacere; con moto”_ hoping the direction was sufficient. 

 

_***_

The soft, smooth thing turned out to be Sherlock’s dressing gown, as John had feared and suspected.

“Fuck me.” John said, holding the garment at arm’s length and wondering what on earth Mrs. Hudson thought he would do with it.  

John knew she had never really given up the idea that her young men were an item. No matter how many girls John had brought by, Mrs. Hudson would always remain coldly polite to his guests - eyeing him disapprovingly when she thought they couldn’t see. But this...this assumption of intimacy was almost too galling to ignore. He pulled out his phone and punched in her number, indignant denial speech half planned.

When she answered, her greeting was so excited and pleasant John couldn’t bring himself to have at her.

“Hello dear! Are you moving back in today? I made us a cake, you know, after yesterday. Who was that young man? I dare say it’s a bit soon, but I should be happy for you - you know I will be, in time, and I did like the music. Bit of a type you’ve got there, haven’t you? I put it on the table upstairs, so next time you come round make sure to grab it.” She gushed all at once, before John could get an angry word in.

“No, no it’s not like that. He’s just - I hired him to play Sherlock’s music so I could record it.” John tried to explain.

“Oh, I know all about that dear. It’s just that he came by again looking for you - saying how he had a surprise.  I thought that maybe -”

“I promise, Mrs. Hudson - I couldn’t -”

“Of course you couldn’t. Not so soon.” John could almost see her sympathetic nod. “So what time will you come buy for cake? Do you think you’ll spend the night? I’ll put fresh sheets on your bed.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. As refreshing as a night without gunfire (was it him or was it getting worse lately?) promised to be, John couldn’t move back in just yet. There was still - he looked at the box - things that needed sorting. 

“I’ll come by for tea - maybe play you the recording, but after that I’ll be off.” John promised, carrying the phone with him to the bathroom. He straightened out his hair.  Mrs. Hudson was going on about plans for the day, and if he had opened his letter from Mycroft, and what he was making of Sherlock’s things.

“I’ll...I’m dealing with it, Mrs. Hudson, and that’s really all I can say.”

After saying goodbye he returned to the sofa, and the blue dressing gown that seemed to be waiting for him; a giant blue accusation. John let out a long, slow breath and stared at the thing.  Suddenly his indignant denial seemed utterly foolish. Mrs. Hudson had been right. Irene had been right. They all had been right, everyone who had ever made an off-handed remark and John had been so quick to shut them up, to shut his heart up, that he’d never admitted it. Not even to himself. It came rushing out of him now, the secret that he couldn’t keep shut away any longer.

“I loved you. Like that. Exactly like that,” he told the dressing gown. It didn’t carry the relief he thought such an admission would. John chalked that up to the fact that he was talking to a dressing gown, and not, in fact, his beloved. It wasn’t enough. 

Since opening the box, John thought he had mourned Sherlock in every way possible but he’d missed one - he hadn’t mourned Sherlock as a lover. Obviously, since they had never been, in spite of all the insinuations to the contrary. In spite of the fact that John suspected they might have eventually been.  Oh, it would have taken a good long while. Sherlock clearly had no experience in the arena and John hadn’t ever done more than snog a bloke at a stag party. After Irene had (rightfully) accused him of being jealous, John had phoned Harry for her advice. If there was anyone that would know, that would understand it would be Harry. 

“It isn’t always a hard and fast gender thing, John. You’re being closed-minded. It’s a person. Julie is the person I love - don’t you understand? The rest is incidental. Even accidental, maybe.”

Harry had dated persons of either gender, though more women than men. Not to say that every person was as sexually flexible as Harry seemed to be (John inwardly shuddered at thinking of his sister as _sexually flexible_ ) but in his own attractions he had noticed a bit of divergence from his professed orientation from time to time. Sherlock had caught his eye as an attractive man from the off, but it wasn’t till Sherlock was spouting impossible observances that John felt the stirring of attraction _for_ him. He never imagined his passing fancies would be returned, and in time they grew too companionable for John to risk upsetting the apple cart to sate his curiosity.  That people never seemed to tire of teasing him about their cohabitation cemented his decision never to do anything about the attraction - John had become stubbornly attached to his denial. 

There were moments, however, the almost-moments. The rush of hot blood after they had solved another case or those late, domestic nights on the sofa. The diamond-cufflink night, when Sherlock had thanked him for a lovely evening and gone to bed rather stiffly. John could recognise those times for what they were even if Sherlock couldn’t and he never knew quite how to handle them. 

John picked up the dressing gown, twisting the cord around his hands and holding the lapels in clenched fists. Like he was about to pull Sherlock close, if only Sherlock were in the robe instead of the ground. It was no use to think about Sherlock like this now - or Irene. They were both dead. Flirting in the hereafter, no doubt. 

The throw-away thought made him irate. Sherlock had left him here and was now solving crimes in heaven with Irene. If there weren’t crimes in heaven before Irene there certainly would be after. Sherlock could solve the ones she committed. A match made, well, right there. John buried his face in the robe, letting the tears fall from his eyes even as the smell of Sherlock washed over his senses. It was sweat and smoke and, God, it was bloody terrific. It made John’s pulse race and his hands steady - as if at any moment something thrilling would happen. But nothing thrilling could happen again, not like that. John lay down on the sofa, keeping the robe against him. 

If his therapist could only see him now, he’d be up to his ears in perceptions. Anti-psychotics and sleep aides and anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds too, he imagined. John would tell her at their next appointment, that he needed a little something. Until then he’d just inhale the only drug he had on hand, robe against his face. If John’s eyes were red at tea, Mrs. Hudson was good enough not to mention it. 

 

***

 

 “I thought he said they didn’t have a double...” John said, surveying the suite dubiously. “Guess he decided to do us a favour.” The advert online had been a bit more flowery in its description than the inn proved in real life. John wished they would have checked around town a bit more, but Sherlock had insisted on pulling him out on the moor while he stood about and posed - at least that’s how it appeared to John. He was sure that all the posing was simply a result of Sherlock being too lost in thought to move. By the time they had found out about the lodging situation, it was too late in the evening to search for anything else. 

“We’re sharing the bed.” Sherlock stated - or was it questioned, John couldn’t really tell - after glancing around the sparse lodging. There wasn’t even on overstuffed chair. The floors were hardwood, which, while quaint, made the prospects of sleeping on the floor less than idea. Sherlock plopped down unceremoniously on one side of the bed, not bothering to remove his shoes. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” John shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to appear ambivalent. In fact, sharing a bed with Sherlock after a full year of denying that anything of the like took place was giving him some apprehension. The bed was small, barely more than a single.  Not a problem for a married couple accustomed to sleeping close, but for flatmates unsure of where they stood in the grand scheme, probably not the best arrangement. 

“I sleep in the nude.” Sherlock stated, pressing his finger tips together and eyeing John as if daring him to answer back. 

“Couldn’t you just...not?” 

Sherlock grunted what John assumed was an affirmative.

“So. We’ve got to scope out Baskerville tomorrow, is that right?” John said, sitting down on his side of the bed.  

“That is the plan.” 

“Do you... fancy a drink downstairs?”

“Suitcase.” Sherlock said, gesturing with his third and forth fingers waving in front of his face before returning to their steepled position beneath his chin. 

John went round to where Sherlock had dropped his bag, just out of his arm’s reach. In with his clothing and toiletries he found a bottle of Glenlivet 12 year. 

“Pubs are distracting when you don’t want to be interrupted.” Sherlock explained.

“I see.” John said, wondering if he oughtn't leave Sherlock to it. There was a large part of him that worried that if he left the room Sherlock would be off skipping through the minefield before John could finish a pint. 

“You are not a distraction.” Sherlock’s voice softened. “Not an unpleasant one, I mean.” 

John chuckled, pouring the scotch into the paper cups intended for mouthwash. 

“You aren’t so awful yourself.” He handed Sherlock his cup and took a sip. Before he could finish swallowing, Sherlock was handing him back the paper cup, emptied. “Ah, so it’s to be one of those evenings.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to sleep clothed _and_ sober.” Sherlock grumbled. “Just bring the bottle.”

After a few long pulls of Scotch, Sherlock suggested turning on the telly. John had changed into his sleep pants and t shirt, while Sherlock had pulled on a (new) set of cotton pyjamas, obviously purchased for the express purpose of this trip and having to share a room. The shop-folded creases could still be seen, and they seemed to drive Sherlock loopy, trying to smooth them out. John laughed at him - the quest for smooth cotton was distracting him from his ordinary habit of channel surfing. Sherlock rarely watched television, but when he did he was the consummate channel hopper. Having abandoned his paper cup, John stole back the bottle and drank. He was beginning to feel quite warm in his chest, a surge of affection for his ridiculous friend, who was alternately clicking the remote and cursing his own pyjamas. 

“It’s all peaky! Sherlock complained, sitting up to smooth the crease - which of course reappeared the moment he reclined again. “This is intolerable.” John laughed at his obvious frustration. 

“Give the remote here. I’ll trade you for the scotch.”  He slurred, holding out his hand. At least if he had the remote he might be able to watch more than ten seconds of a program. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of duplicity. “Come on then…” John spoke in a soothing voice, slowly offering the bottle. Sherlock made the switch, snatching the bottle and pulling it to him like a treasured artefact. 

“You are drunk.” Sherlock said pointedly, cocking an eyebrow and examining the level of liquid left in the bottle. The scotch was more than half gone, and Sherlock took another gulp. 

“Well spotted. You aren’t so fit to operate heavy machinery yourself.” John was absorbed in the nature program on the screen and didn’t so much as turn his head to respond until he heard a loud thunk . Sherlock had allowed the bottle to slip from his hand onto the hardwood floor. His arm still fell over the side of the bed, hand extended in the blue light of the television. 

“Fortunate that this is a bed, rather than a forklift. Suppose I can still operate a bed just fine.” Sherlock smiled then, a curious twist of his mouth that was soon gone when he noticed his shirt again. “Sod it all.” Sherlock had sunk a little lower in the bed, and his tenting pyjama top was all the more evident. “This is why I sleep in the nude.” 

“This is why God invented the iron. Or T-shirts. Or the tumble dryer.” John informed him, feeling like he had the upper hand for once and not really knowing why. The alcohol in his veins made him feel warm and pleasantly spinny. Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, halfheartedly still trying to smooth out his shirt.  John watched his hand traverse the length of his chest and suddenly wished the remainder of the scotch weren’t so far off. 

“Here.” John sat up in bed, facing Sherlock. “Let me.” He ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides, pulling the pyjama top tight across his chest and tucking the extra fabric beneath his body. Sherlock accommodated him, arching his back ever so slightly beneath John’s hands. John’s breath caught in his throat as his hands tightened around Sherlock’s frame all of their own accord. 

 “Now quit your whinging.” He struggled to say, patting the now-smooth fabric against Sherlock’s stomach.  Their eyes met and Sherlock stared at him for a long time, in that appraising manner of his that always made John want to look elsewhere. A smile burst onto Sherlock’s face and he laughed, a low rumbling laugh that went straight to John’s stomach and his insides seemed to go terribly wrong all of a sudden. A heat broke out over his skin, and the happy delirium from a moment ago now threatened to overtake him unless he closed his eyes. Blindly, he turned back around and lay down, focusing on his breathing. He’d had too much alcohol far too quickly.

“John.” Sherlock mumbled, evidentially done with whatever had made him laugh. John felt a hand at his wrist and Sherlock turned towards him, undoing all John’s good work on the shirt.  

“I used to get this way every night.” The light mood of the evening had turned serious, somehow, and John opened one eye to look at Sherlock. He was close, altogether too close, lying on his side. “It’s so nice, John. I feel....everything. All the noise is gone and I just...” Sherlock exhaled, and John felt his damp breath ghost against his neck. “John, look at me.”

John turned his head and did as told. Their noses were inches apart. Everything seemed to take so long, every time he blinked he felt like a full minute passed. 

“You amaze me, John Watson.” Sherlock said, inhaling sharply. 

“I...what?” John didn’t comprehend. Sherlock closed his eyes, the hint of a smile melting across his lips. 

“You feel all this without any chemical imperative....you navigate by different landmarks entirely and yet, here we are. In the same place.”

“You drove me here, Sherlock.”  John pointed out, wondering just how drunk his friend had gotten. 

“Not the point. And yet...precisely.”

John paused, trying to make sense of what Sherlock was on about and – suddenly - what Irene had been on about and if the two were connected at all. Anyhow, it was stupid to think of Irene now. _Change the subject, John._

“Your shirt’s gone all peaky again.” John put a finger to the errant fold, and slid his finger along Sherlock’s chest to try and smooth it.  His hand hit the elastic waistband and he pulled away sharply, mumbling an apology before turning his head back up and folding his hands across his chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up abruptly.

“It’s no use putting it off any longer.” John was terrified and hopeful for a second without really understanding why, but then Sherlock pulled off his pyjama shirt and John saw that he only meant to be rid of his aggravating garment.  The TV light glowed blue on his pale skin, and a thought pressed its way into the front of his consciousness and almost out of his mouth. _Bet your bottoms are creased just the same._ John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Never again, this much Glenlivet. 

“That solves that.” Sherlock said, settling back down into the bed and tucking his impossibly cold feet beneath John’s calves. 

“The case of the shop-folded pyjamas. Forgive me if I don’t blog about this one.” 

“Pity. One of my more genius ideas.” 

John snorted and folded his hands behind his head. “You know, you amaze me too.”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.” Never the less, Sherlock sounded pleased. Though he often protested otherwise, he loved to be complimented. 

“Be good or I won’t say it again.” 

“Highly unlikely.”

“Which part?” It was out of his mouth without his usual filter, and at any other time Sherlock would have told him off for being obtuse. Instead Sherlock was silent for a second, maybe two - John could hear him breathing. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut his mind against the idea of Sherlock misbehaving. 

“Take your pick.” Sherlock’s voice was ragged and low and John felt a cold toe brush against his ankle just once before settling back beneath his leg again. He wrote it off as incidental, but then Sherlock’s hand brushed against his own, Palm open. An offering.  

“Suppose you’re right.” John stated, is voice feeling like it belonged to some one else. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement but didn’t speak again. John opened his eyes and concentrated on finding patterns in the plaster ceiling. Sherlock was difficult to read in ordinary circumstances so John felt he couldn’t be blamed for finding a drunk Sherlock impossible to comprehend. There was something in the air; something John could almost give a name to, if he dared speak it aloud. It was altogether the most confusing, terrifying, exhilarating thing he’d ever felt and it weighed on him, whatever it was. It kept him pressed on his back, pinned there, for fear that if he moved at all it would ignite and consume them both. 

When he finally dared to turn his head, Sherlock’s eyes had drifted closed. John watched him for a long time - and if his hand brushed against Sherlock’s side as he gave himself over to sleep, well, John forgave himself in such close quarters. 

John dreamed of milk-white skin and his fingers on it, streaks of heat trailing wherever he touched. 

 

***

 

After a week of coming to the grave every night and not saying anything, John arrived one evening carrying a single rose. Sherlock could tell it was a rose by the fragrance, thick and heady in the evening air. John paced a bit before setting it down - and then did something entirely unexpected. 

He laughed. It was a small giggle at first, but soon it had grown into a full belly laugh. Sherlock hadn’t heard John laugh in months. It was a joyous sound, and Sherlock wished he could join in - wished he knew what was so funny. 

John put a hand on the headstone, the laughter fading with a happy sigh. 

“Well, there you have it, Sherlock. I’ve brought you flowers. Well, one flower anyway. That’s --” John cleared his throat, still amused “that’s more wooing than I’ve done in ages.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped, at least it felt as though it did. John couldn’t possibly-

“It’s a little late now, I suppose. But better late than never. This...whatever was between us...well, Sherlock, it was something I knew better than you, for once, and even I didn’t know what to do about it. So I did nothing. I loved you - really loved you - and I never let on. I denied it whenever anyone mentioned or hinted but they all saw it - even Irene. Especially Irene. _That_ woman. You probably didn’t know, but that’s how I referred to her. _That_ woman. Even so, I should probably thank her. She made me own up to it. Made me see it wasn’t really about...that I loved you and that’s all there was to it. I didn’t like her but if she had a grave, I would visit it. She’s dead too, by the way, but I’m sure you know that.”

Sherlock wanted to correct him  - Irene was very much alive and had even given him some tips for hunting down Moriarty’s known acquaintances thus far. He didn’t think John would appreciate that knowledge, however, even if he could tell him.

“So, Sherlock. I guess that’s what I’ve been working up the balls to say. If you had wanted - if you ever had shown...I would have been game to give it a go. I think we might have done all right, you and I. In that way. I think it might have been good.”

John waited, as if for a response. Sherlock waited, not knowing what to do. John had always occupied the singular position of being the one Sherlock wanted to be with, even in a strictly platonic sense. There wasn’t anything he could think of that wouldn’t be better with John near him. It was Sherlock’s Law of John Watson. It had been easy to refrain from thinking of John in a sexual way because, well, Sherlock didn’t view things in a sexual way. Not till the woman, at any rate. Irene wasn’t what he wanted, but being near her - it was impossible not to think about sex, because she always was. It was an arena he was entirely naive about and Sherlock hated to be at a disadvantage. So suddenly, he started to think about it. Once he decided it was something he’d like to have more intimate knowledge of, well - the Law of John Watson kicked in and suddenly everything got a bit more complicated.  The easy companionship they’d always shared grew a little more stilted and Sherlock could feel himself pulling away. It was uncomfortable, all the wanting. 

John had seen that Sherlock wasn’t himself, and of course, had entirely misjudged the reason. 

Which led Sherlock to a discovery. A thrilling, wonderful, horrifying discovery (the best kind, really.) John was jealous. He was jealous of Irene because John had somehow come to believe that Sherlock fancied her. Fancied her more than anyone, more than John. It was ridiculous, almost funny - he found himself encouraging John’s theory. The longer it went on, the whole Irene situation, the more obviously agitated John became.  He had waited for John to say something - to confess - to make a move in this, in only this, first.  But John had never done, and Sherlock had to admit to himself that he’d read the situation all wrong and that John wasn’t interested in him, not that way. 

Now faced with incontrovertible evidence that his initial hypothesis had been solid, Sherlock felt no joy in being proved correct. Well, maybe a tiniest bit of joy. But it was murdered by the fact that John, that his John wanted him in the very best/worst of ways and was now convinced that he’d missed his chance. In his line of work, Sherlock had seen his share of grieving spouses, how the loss of their mates would consume them utterly. He didn’t think he’d left anyone behind, not in that way. He knew John would miss him, was missing him terribly but this - 

“Well, I’ll just be going, then.” John interrupted Sherlock’s analysis of their every moment together by speaking. He almost silenced him without thinking. John left and Sherlock let him go. 

He had cut all the strands of Moriarty’s web in London, had finished a week ago and yet he’d lingered. The nightly visits to his own grave were the only way he had to check in on those he’d died to save. Leaving them was proving more difficult than he’d care to admit. 

 

***

 

There were only two things left in the box, and one of them wasn’t even a real “box item.” John pulled them both out and set them on the end table. There was the thick envelope from Mycroft and, of course, the skull. 

The envelope contained Sherlock’s last will and testament. It was thick with legal verbiage, and John almost abandoned it before noticing that Mycroft (or Anthea, more likely) had marked the more relevant passages with highlighter. 

“To my colleague and friend, Dr. John Watson, I bequeath the contents of 221B Baker Street and the entire monetary value of my estate. This sum shall be held in trust and distributed in an amount per annum deemed reasonable by whatever financier my brother is using at the time. You had better not stiff him out of it, Mycroft.”

The formal flow of language interrupted by Sherlock’s insinuations and insults made John laugh, but then he stilled. Even though Sherlock pretended to disdain Mycroft, he clearly trusted his brother. A trust most tragically misplaced, John thought disdainfully. For the better part of two years, John had taken care of Sherlock. He’d done his washing, tidied up after the man, taken his notes, gone shopping, made sure he had enough to eat, that he actually slept and spoke and continued to breathe in spite of himself. John had always thought it had gone unnoticed, but had continued in his vocation because it was so clearly needed. Now, to know that he hadn’t been taken for granted - that Sherlock had indeed noticed and was reciprocating even from the hereafter...John placed the will on the table, not being able to process it all just yet. He needed something more tangible. 

John picked up the skull and ran his fingers along the eye sockets. When he had been younger, Harry had been afraid of skeletons. She’d swear they were hiding in the bed, in the wardrobe, behind the hall door and John would have to check even though he was the younger one.  He’d never been afraid of skeletons, or ghouls, or zombies or any other back-from-the-dead sort of movie monster. John had always thought the idea of a dead thing coming back was sort of sad. When they were older and he and Harry would stay up late and watch a scary film, she’d still hide beneath the comforter and John would still feel sad for the poor things, robbed of their end by unfinished business. 

“Suppose you’ve been lonely.” He said to the skull, and laughed at himself. “No one talks to you anymore.”

Suddenly it wasn’t funny, it was sad - and terribly so. This had been a person, once, a human male. It had been robbed from its resting place and had somehow come into Sherlock’s possession where it had been confided it, cared for, theorised with, and likely experimented on. 

This skull had been Sherlock’s only companion before John had turned up, and now here they both were. Left. John imagined that somewhere, the skull’s owner felt Sherlock’s loss as acutely as he did, brought back to this world by Sherlock’s attention and tethered to it by fascination of him. 

“It just isn’t right, is it? You being here.” John ran his hand over the skull in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. The bone felt well worn, as though Sherlock had done the same hundreds and hundreds of times. “I could bury you with him, but...” John paused, squeezing his eyes shut tightly “but I’m afraid to be jealous of you. Of what that means.”

The skull looked at him, blank eye sockets offering empathy without judgement. 

“So I suppose there’s only one place for you and that’s where he put you. And if you go back, I ought to. We’re all he had, really. “We’re what he left behind. If there’s one thing he hated, it was his things not being where he left them.”

The skull agreed silently, and John got up from the couch to get started on the business of moving home. 

 

***

 

The hunt became all. Days away from London turned into weeks and months. It was quite difficult to move around the continent while dead, Sherlock discovered. Fortunately he’d had cash set aside and more than one off shore account under assumed names.  He gave no thought to the cost of things, not the monetary cost at any rate. It was impossible for him not to see the other costs taking their toll. He was getting too thin, but food did nothing to satisfy him. He was smoking again, almost constantly, to keep his mind racing and off of John. He didn’t like to think of John coming to visit him without Sherlock being physically present. It was absurd, he knew, as John certainly didn’t know he was being watched, but Sherlock felt that the very least he could do was be present for John in his sorrow.  It was impossible, though, for him to have remained in London any longer. His hunt had taken him all over Europe - and to America once - but it was drawing to a close. The stage was all but set and Sherlock found himself once more on British soil. 

It had all gone so well, his little invasion into the home where Sherlock was sure the proof of his own identity had resided. The lone guard had been unaware of his presence until far too late. A single shot through his chest, silenced.  It had been easy to pull the trigger. Sherlock fancied he had almost as much blood on his hands as John by now, in his own personal war. He’d been about to leave the boathouse for the attached residence when he was struck with the fact that the guard’s hair was almost the exact same colour and texture as John’s. The man lay, bleeding out on the floor, and Sherlock knelt over him, tilting his head this way and that, trying to find a difference. He was livid that this creature of Moriarty’s, this - Sherlock checked his pulse - this corpse would dare possess hair that remind him of John’s. But there it was. Copper and brown and blonde and hints of grey all at once. Sherlock pulled a green fishing net down from the boathouse shelf to cover the man’s head, just so he wouldn’t have to look at the corpse’s hair any longer.  Just as he bent to arrange the net, a bullet lodged itself in the wood brace of the shelf. Thinking fast, Sherlock pulled the dead man up, bracing for the inevitable second shot whilst he readied his own gun. His attacker was female, wore glasses, and was clearly not an assassin. Creases around her eyes in spite of her young age - computer work. Sherlock grinned, thrilled with his quarry in sight. Especially since there were tears in her eyes and ring on her finger - the corpse’s new widow. In which case - 

Sherlock rose to his feet, taking the body with him. God, but the corpse was heavy. Too heavy to hold steady and fire a clean shot. 

“John, take the gun.” Sherlock said, momentarily forgetting he was without John. It had been months and still, when he was in the thick of it, he would call on John as though the man would materialise when he was needed the most. John had that habit, though, so Sherlock felt he could not be blamed. No luck, this time - though Sherlock owed that to John still believing him dead rather than lack of skill on John’s part. No, this was his own fault, John could hardly be held responsible when - 

Another shot interrupted his thoughts, this one wide and to the right. His enemy was taking care not to hit her husband’s body, which rendered her unable to hit Sherlock.  Not that she was much of a marksman in the first place. Her grip was all wrong, a weak wrist and trembling fingers didn’t help her. Another shot, far over his head. A frustrated scream. 

“Stop that.” She shouted, words all but indistinguishable from her sobs. ‘Weak, John would never’ - Sherlock started to think but knew better now. “Stop holding him up it isn’t right.”

“Put your gun down and I won’t have need of him.” Sherlock tried to keep the contempt out of his voice but knew he had failed. The woman grimaced and put the barrel of the gun against her temple. “No, no don’t do that.” Sherlock needed to act quickly. The woman’s brain held facts - she was important. It was much easier to get facts from a brain with a working mouth attached to it.  “Would he have wanted that?” Sherlock held up the corpse a little higher and tilted his head. He even tried a slight smile, dripping with pity. It proved a bit too much, because she trained the gun on him again. Sherlock ducked behind the corpse’s shoulder. His muscles, already fatigued from the fight, were exhausting themselves holding the body upright. 

“If you don’t put him down now, I’ll shoot right through him.” The woman warned, and Sherlock had to keep himself from chuckling. 

“No, I really don’t think you will. So, either prove me wrong or drop the gun.” Sherlock waited, a long moment where he wondered if the man’s head provided sufficient cover. He hadn’t gotten a close enough look at the weapon to determine caliber. No need; Sherlock heard the unmistakable skittering of a gun hitting a cement floor and sliding. Ever a man of his word, Sherlock let the corpse go. He and the woman looked at each other. She was in shock; he was in study. 

The woman was from Penzance, or near as, by her speech. Educated but not well off, as evidenced by her dress and the laptop bag she carried. It had a broken zipper. In the bag was a MacBook; two, no, three years old by the body style. She wasn’t dressed for boating or for guard duty, so clearly she was here because it was her daily routine to do so. She was what was being guarded. 

“You can’t just do that to a person.” She said, finally. “You can’t use a dead body...”

“You do what you must.” Sherlock said simply, and held out his hand for the bag. “You should know that better than anybody.”

“Wha-”

“You married fast, too fast, to know what you were getting yourself into. Then when your husband said he was in too deep and needed your help, you did what you had to do even though it went against both your better judgment and established laws. Besides, it wasn’t as if it was hurting anyone, you thought, just a new identity for your husband’s boss. If you could just do this he’d let you both alone, and you’d start again somewhere else.”

“He had a gambling problem.” The woman sniffled, picking up the bag. “He owed so much money and -”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock snipped, writing off the rest of her story. He gave not a single care for how the woman had been coerced into creating Richard Brook’s records. The poor thing had that desperate look about her - it wouldn’t have taken much. “He lost the only bet that counts. He was wrong about it.”

“About what?”

“It not hurting anyone. Your - “ Sherlock gestured towards the computer bag. “Work for Richard Brook. It killed me.”

The words ripped her eyes from the dead man. “You look terribly alive to me,” she scoffed.

“So it would seem, wouldn’t it? But I am dead in every sense that matters.”

“You’re breathing,” She pointed out. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“So are you.” 

The woman looked at her dead husband, flopped gracelessly on the floor where Sherlock had dropped him, still tangled in the fishing net. She closed her eyes and began to cry in earnest. 

“The bag, please.” 

“That’s my laptop - I need it for work.” She protested softly, but Sherlock saw the protest was empty. Her mate was dead. 

“Do you?” 

Trembling, she picked up her bag and handed it to Sherlock. 

“It’s all there - Richard Brook. Well, it’s been deleted of course but you should be able to-”

“I’m sure I shall.”  Sherlock said, turning away. She was weeping openly now and Sherlock was not in a mood to pretend pity. 

“I’m sorry,” she called after him “I’m sorry that I killed you.”

“Likewise.” 

Sherlock wasn’t very far outside the boathouse when he heard the gun fire once more. He thought about doubling back to be sure, but even she couldn’t miss that near a target. 

Proof in hand, Sherlock found that he was walking at a rather undignified pace. Thinking of the woman, now lying dead beside her mate, he broke into a run. 

 

***

 

John had put it off as long as he could - a few months didn’t seem to matter much in the grand scheme of things. On the day he’d chosen,  John arrived at 221B, suitcase and M&S bag in tow, just after dark. He paused at the stairs, not sure if he should tell Mrs. Hudson that he was back to stay. He sighed and began the climb up, knowing that if he woke her now there would be a conversation and a fuss and he was too tired to face it just yet. The flat was quiet in that reverent way that John had only associated with churches and courts of law. He stepped in just as quietly, not wanting to break the spell yet. He stood in the dark for what felt like a very long time, feeling as though he could still turn around and head for a hotel but instead he flicked on the light and set about making himself at home again. It was like being back in the Army, setting up camp for the night became an orderly task - something he could focus on. 

First off, he took his M&S bag into the kitchen, which was more tidy and clean now than it had ever been. That made it easier, somehow. He held his breath as he opened the refrigerator, letting it out again once he was assured that no body parts waited for him on the inside. John unpacked his pre-made sandwiches, milk, and some carrots and took a step back. Yes, that was very good. Securing storage for provisions could be safely checked off his mental survival list. Next up - 

John was distracted from his “set up camp” routine by a square envelope set on the table. The surprise from Tim O’Rourke, the tube station violinist, left there by Mrs. Hudson months ago now. He’d forgotten to pick it up after tea that day. There was a post-it note attached, and in Mrs. Hudson’s familiar cursive was written:

“It’s all rather soon, John, but if you’d like to bring him round for tea I would love to meet him properly.”

“Christ.” John said aloud, with a snort. There was no convincing her, no matter how many girls he brought by. Then again, she’d been right all along. ‘Well, not this time.’ He thought, inwardly raging at the idea of anyone replacing Sherlock. No, he had made the choice. Move onward or..or..John looked at the flat about him... this was it. This was his life. Confirmed bachelor John Watson. 

He opened the envelope - inside was a CD with a scribbled note from Tim. “Finished it off and recorded it proper. Would love to hear what you think” with a telephone number John knew he would never dial following the message. He set it back on the table and hoisted his case up alongside it. He unzipped it and removed the skull, carefully wrapped in several of John’s jumpers. 

“There you are, my friend.” He said, feeling that the skull looked a little less sad now. “Glad to be home?”

There weren’t enough prescriptions in the world for him now. The thought made John laugh. He was fine, really. It was just like people who would talk to their dogs or cats. Maybe John would get a cat. Or four. Maybe he’d grow old in the flat with only the skull and his cats for company and that would be alright, wouldn’t it? Not optimal, sure, but enough had happened to him. 

John did what he always did when overwhelmed - made tea. The ritual was comforting and he closed out all the thoughts about prescriptions and multiple cats. While the kettle boiled, he walked the skull back over to its place on the mantle. “There you are.” It didn’t quite sit right, though, and in the dim light from the kitchen he saw that there was something on the mantle where the skull was supposed to go. It was soft and cloth and oh - 

Oh. 

Sherlock’s hat. His deerstalker, his ear-hat, his reward from Lestrade. How he’d loathed the thing, and of course Mrs. Hudson had to put it in a place of honour. John picked it up from underneath the skull and pressed it to his face. He wasn’t even embarrassed about it anymore, trying to smell Sherlock. The hat smelled of furniture polish - any traces of its owner were gone. 

Sherlock had hated the hat and for a moment now, John did too, as the symbol of what had happened to him. The hat had been on the cover of every newspaper, every magazine, with “fraud” or “fake” stamped over it in big red letters. Yet he couldn’t hate it, not really. It had become part of Sherlock - the part that embodied the public fascination with him that John couldn’t help but understand.  A singular hat for a singular man, both of them so beyond the ordinary that they stood out like a beacon. 

“You terrible, awful thing.” John said to the hat, but there was fondness in his voice. He ran his fingers around the rim, picturing how it had sat on Sherlock’s mass of curls. “What on earth am I supposed to do with you?”

Inspiration struck and he plopped the hat down on top of the skull and lovingly tied the ear flaps up over the top. “That’s better.” John didn’t acknowledge the thought that he’d 

had, that the skull seemed happier. He wasn’t even going to let his brain go there. Though _he_ was happier now. This was as good as things could get. It was a reminder, a reminder that Sherlock was not merely gone, he was dead. More than that, it was reminder of all the wonderful things he’d been. Genius, eccentric, mercurial, and dangerously fascinating.

There was something else on the mantle - it caught John’s eyes as he moved, a glint of reflected light. John grabbed it - a small frame - and pulled it into the kitchen for a closer look. 

It was a framed picture of himself and Sherlock, though John didn’t know how it had been taken. The flash of the camera was reflected in a sparkle of light at Sherlock’s wrist, held just slightly over his head, which was turned to look back at John. The diamond cufflinks, catching the light as Sherlock had try to hail a cab.  John followed Sherlock’s eyes and looked at himself, though it almost didn’t register as a photo of him. The man next to Sherlock looked so at ease, so happy. They had been laughing when this was taken, laughing about Sherlock with a tie clip, trying to sell automobiles for a living. John had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders were held high. He was looking back at Sherlock and it hit John, all of a sudden. This had been a moment, or an almost-moment, as it had turned out. He was looking at Sherlock like he was the only thing in the world and the random paparazzo had caught him out in it, like Irene Adler only more permanent. Sherlock was laughing too, but was less unguarded about it, as if he knew he was about to he photographed. John supposed it was because he was also hailing a cab - 

a non existent cab.  There was no cab in the photo, neither in front or behind them.  John remembered that after the photographer had dashed off, Sherlock had to hail a cab again. There had not been a first automobile.  The arm signal had not been for a cab, though clearly Sherlock had wanted him to think so, or he would not have used the universal cab-hailing gesture. 

The photographer had not been random, John felt sure of it now. After all, didn’t paparazzi usually travel in packs? The restaurant John had picked was not a known haunt of he and Sherlock’s, and it wasn’t a place where famous people usually dined. John had written it off as a random encounter at the time, but now with the evidence in his hands - Sherlock trying to hail an invisible cab...

Sherlock had wanted a picture of them, John was forced to deduce. They were both dressed nicely and it was a nice evening out - a date, John would have said had it been with anyone else - and Sherlock had wanted a picture of it, even though he was hardly the type to keep a photo album.  He’d been to embarrassed to admit he wanted one, though, thus the stealthy photographer signalled into action and off again before John could get a good look at him. The photo hadn’t been on the mantle before, and John was sure he would have seen it in Sherlock’s room had it been out in the open. No. Clearly Mrs. Hudson had unearthed it while cleaning and had thought to make him a little welcome home gift of it. 

The idea that Sherlock had engineered this photo and had kept it secreted away, this almost-moment preserved and hidden...it could only lead John to another deduction of his own: Sherlock had loved him, in his own way and at the same time in the same way that regular people fell in love with other people. 

The kettle began to whistle, the water inside it boiling now. John poured it in to the teapot and let it steep, lost in thought. 

No matter how well John thought he was hiding his feelings for Sherlock, he’d always known that Sherlock _must_ know. John thought he’d chosen to ignore them because they were not returned. Now, faced with evidence to the contrary, John saw that it was learned behaviour. Sherlock, the great mimic, had seen that John hid away his feelings and assumed that such feelings _were_ to be hidden away. So he had done. John cursed his folly - of course, he should have been the brave one. It all seemed so obvious now, his caution so misplaced and so useless and all of it such a bloody waste.  John put the picture back on the mantle, rubbing the edge of it thoughtfully.

“Love you.” He said to Sherlock-in-the-photograph. It was a comfort, at least, to know that he had been loved in return. 

John poured himself a cup, flicked the kitchen light off, and brought the CD over to the CD player on the bookshelf. He popped it in the tray and headed to his chair, pausing momentarily to turn back around and hit “repeat.” Who was he kidding, really? He allowed himself the night to sulk and would get back to the business of rebuilding his life tomorrow. Tonight was a night to remember - what had been and what almost had been. 

There was just enough light coming in through the window for John to see around the living room. The music began, slow and mournful, and if John turned his head away from the window he could almost pretend that Sherlock was standing there, playing for him. It sounded so similar to his memory of Sherlock playing the piece and yet a world away. The soul had gone out of it, but it was precisely that which captivated him. A kinship, he supposed, is what he felt for the empty music. 

John closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the feeling of Sherlock, as he’d done so many times before. It was easier here than in his short-term rental. He could almost taste Sherlock here, not that he ever _had_ tasted him, per se. He turned his mind away from that line of thinking. Here there be dragons, the map in his minds-eye warned. But the subtle lure of it kept calling back to him. This was their home. John saw the folly now in trying to run away from it. His destiny, however lonely, was here in this space. He was living evidence that a man called Sherlock Holmes had lived here; had solved the most impossible mysteries here, even if the obvious had eluded them both. 

Even if John was the only one who believed, he owed it to Sherlock to carry on as if the whole world did. He needed to be here, so that anyone who bothered to look would know that John wasn’t hiding and wasn’t ashamed of their connection. That he did still believe. He owed it to himself to watch as the other evidence of their life together faded away, till only he and the skull remained as testament to the extraordinary events that had taken place in this flat, as well as their equally extraordinary catalyst.  He remained, like the items that Mrs. Hudson had placed in the box for him, ordinary things that, without Sherlock, ceased to have any meaning.  Here he, and they, could be evidence. John wanted to live here, and more than that, he wanted to die here. For where would Sherlock’s spirit be if not here? He would never be content to rest, not even in death, and John knew he would follow him, if only he were able. If only such things as spirits existed, and for the first time in his life John hoped they did. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so robbed of the time he should have spent with Sherlock.

With warm tea in his belly and a head full of oddly cheerful dark thoughts, John fell asleep, letting the music wash over his consciousness until that too faded into dream.

John woke with the sunrise, the light cutting through the curtains in the window almost blinding him. The music was still playing, so John closed his eyes again, not quite ready to face the day. ‘As soon as it finishes,’ he thought, knowing that it didn’t have much longer to go. But he needed a few more minutes alone with Sherlock’s song before really and truly waking. 

It sounded better in the morning light, full of hope instead of pointless longing. John assumed the change was in himself, that he was feeling better about everything now that he’d made up his mind to come home but then again, no. 

The music changed keys, and John was no musician but he swore that particular movement was different as Tim recorded it. He’d listened to it, God, probably ten times before falling asleep and on it had played while he was sleeping and this, this was different. John’s eyes flew over to the CD player and, as he’d begun to equally fear and wish for, discovered it was powered off. 

The notes began to climb, a dizzying assent of sixteenth notes until the chord resolved itself on a gloriously high tone and held itself there for what seemed like forever. It was beautiful, triumphant even, where the resolution Tim had recorded ended with an aching low note. John feared to turn around, knowing and not knowing what to expect. The music carried on, easing back down the scale slightly and ending, finally, on two notes being played in tandem. The harmony felt like it had caught fire in his chest, and he had to fight to keep from looking. It was altogether too much. 

John realised his shoulders were shaking and he forced himself to speak, saying

“It never seemed right, somehow...before. Almost, but not quite” without knowing whom or what he was addressing.

“It wasn’t.”

The player spoke with Sherlock’s voice and for a second, John felt bad for this thing that had come back to finish Sherlock’s song properly. Whatever Sherlock was now - apparition, phantom violin player, deftly-musical zombie - John didn’t know and he no longer cared. Sherlock’s voice washed over him and John prayed it would continue. 

“But John,” and John shuddered at the sound of his own name. “I needed to set it right.”

“And so you have.” John said, finally summoning the courage to turn around and face him. “It’s a beautiful ending.” It was Sherlock, of course, the shape his mind was undoubtedly conjuring up. No pale shade could match so perfectly, no ghost or ghoul could come close to imitating how he’d looked in life so completely. John decided he must be mad, yes, he had gone round the bend and he was shockingly okay with that, so long as the madness stayed with him.

“Oh John. My dear John. Not the song, not that at all.”  The voice was exasperated and imaginary-Sherlock gave him that look, that look that John hated and loved with equal force. The look that said “We both know what’s going on here, even if you are too stubborn to see it.” John pondered for a moment, remembering all to well - 

 “If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Sherlock said, setting down his violin. John moved to him, almost unaware of his speed. His hands formed fists but instead of striking the seeming-apparition, John’s fists were balled up in Sherlock’s dress shirt and it _was_ him. His body was warm beneath the fabric; he was warm and breathing and his heart beating sure and strong and fast. Alive.

John felt as if he might faint, his knees were wobbly and his hands kept clenching the shirt tighter and tighter. He knew if he let go of the shirt he’d probably punch Sherlock, or kiss him, maybe both.  Sherlock’s arms went around him and John allowed himself to be manoeuvred to the sofa. Sherlock backed him down onto it, hushing the questions John wasn’t even aware he was asking. He didn’t feel capable of speech; as if the certainty of Sherlock’s death being erased had similarly erased everything else his rational mind relied upon. 

 Sherlock tried to pull back, but John wouldn’t let go. Sherlock smiled a bit and before John could scoot sideways Sherlock was laying down on top of him.

“You’re in shock.” Sherlock mumbled in his ear, “and Mrs. Hudson put away the blanket.”

It was Sherlock’s weight that finally convinced John this was actually happening and not some half-formed dream. The bone of Sherlock’s shoulder digging in painfully against his own; Sherlock’s ribs grinding into his chest. It was pain and it was real and John could process it. 

“You can’t...you can’t just -” John started to say but he gave up, because of course Sherlock could. Any end to the sentence that he’d started, Sherlock absolutely could. 

“Words are clearly not your strong suit right now, though I look forward to having a long conversation with you once you’ve regained your customary faculties.” Sherlock said, laughing a bit as John finally brought himself to let go of Sherlock’s shirt. 

The shirt he’d bought for him to go with his cufflinks. The shirt he was wearing in the secret photograph, the very one he’d given Mrs. Hudson for Sherlock to be buried in along with the cufflinks. John turned his head and - sure thing, Sherlock was wearing them, the same ones John had buried above his grave. 

“You knew I...how did you guess I had buried them?” John managed to gasp out, each word a feat of strength with all Sherlock’s weight on his chest. 

“I didn’t guess, John, I observed... I observed everything.” 

“All of it?” John asked, suddenly feeling very exposed even though Sherlock was covering him entirely. 

“All of it, until I knew you were alright...until I knew everything I needed to know.” 

“Bloody elaborate way to get me to admit that I fancied you.”

“You know that’s not why-” Sherlock’s face looked panicked and John brought his hand to Sherlock’s cheek to still him. 

“Shh. Just an ill-timed joke, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you understand why I...surely you can guess that the only thing that would have-”

“I can.” John mumbled beneath Sherlock’s frantic explanation. “Not that I have to - ” 

“It was your life or mine.” Sherlock interrupted, as John knew he would. “I had to be sure that no one was left to force that choice again. If anyone suspected, they had orders -” Sherlock swallowed hard. John felt his adam’s apple bob against his own cheek. “John, without you there would not be -”

“Can you not, just now?” John asked, tangling his hands in Sherlock’s hair because he _could_. “Can this be enough, that you’re back and alive and - bloody hell, Sherlock, on top of me?” 

John did not weep, though he felt as thought he was. In fact, his chest felt like an improvised explosive, designed to go off if Sherlock ever got up. 

“Is it enough?” Sherlock whispered - one of the few times John could ever remember him questioning anything. “Just being here? Was it ever enough?”

“It was all right before. We could keep it that way, but there was something, Sherlock, there is something... and we can keep on pretending like we don’t know what it is or we can be men about it and - “ John paused, searching for Sherlock’s reaction. He was very still, like he was in the moments before some great deduction, waiting for the last piece of the puzzle to make itself known. 

“Oh, damn it all to hell.” John cursed and didn’t hesitate another moment. The space between them was lost as John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. It was a soft thing, as kisses go, an offering. Let Sherlock do with it what he would, John had put everything on the line. John studied his face again, wondering what he would make of it. He looked startled, but a bit pleased too. A smile pulled at the left corner of his mouth, the way it always did when he was particularly surprised with John. 

Sherlock lowered his head slowly and kissed him, the same slow press of lips that John had given. John opened his mouth, showing a new way, and Sherlock was content to follow his lead and even do him one further by running his tongue slowly against John’s lower lip. John rewarded his daring with a deeper kiss, and a caress low on Sherlock’s back. 

“Well I’ll never have enough now, thank you.” John mumbled in his ear when they had stopped to breathe. He pressed his lips against the curve of Sherlock’s neck. 

“It’s is entirely not enough” agreed Sherlock, who gasped at the feel of John kissing his neck “but it’s enough to be going on with.” 

“I keep thinking I’m dreaming. That if I let you go I’ll wake up.” John admitted, rubbing his fingers along Sherlock’s spine to keep himself grounded in the reality of their situation. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t have happy dreams.” Sherlock spoke against John’s mouth, the words themselves forming a kiss of sorts. “Here I am.” 

“So you are. With your cufflinks, I see.” 

“I’ll be wanting my mobile back as well.” Sherlock teased, running his hand down John’s side and brushing against the bulge in John’s front trouser pocket, where he kept his phone.

“That’s a shame. Mrs. Hudson was going to make me a jumper to match.” John quipped, trying to cover the hitch in his breath from having Sherlock so close. 

“And my dressing gown, and my music and my - “

“Yes, and your awful ear-hat and everything else that makes you... you,” John interrupted, but Sherlock silenced him, a brief peck on the lips. 

“I was going to say my blogger.” Sherlock confessed. “But I suppose that covers it. Everything else that makes me...that without which, I would not be. Yes. I’ll need that all.”

“And you will have it. Starting with your blogger.” 

“That I will.” Sherlock agreed.


End file.
